Biblical
by hiding duh
Summary: Sylar/Claire. Sylar doesn't break things; he fixes them.


Look at me being productive while my server's offline! No, but seriously, hurry up, Blizzard.

**Title**: Biblical  
**Fandom**: Heroes  
**Characters/Pairings**: Sylar/Claire, canon.  
**Summary**: Sylar doesn't break things; he fixes them.  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Spoilers**: Through 3x05. Also, spoilers for the Bible?  
**Word Count**: 1650  
**Notes**: For some reason, I was typo'ing all over the place and Heroes suddenly became Herpes. How unfortunate.

* * *

Okay, yeah.

So that was a mistake. Going after the one guy who could actually kill her, yeah, not brilliant. But this? Definitely less so.

"Does your father know you're here?" he asks, amused.

"Which one?" she replies, staring at the glass separating them.

His lips twitch upward a little and then he's palming the window, letting her in. "The one that's going to try to decapitate me once he finds out."

She climbs in, swinging her legs over the windowsill, and asks, "Again, which one?"

The house is small, unassuming. A few lamps are on, TV off, dishwasher running loudly in the background.

"I thought you were grounded," he says, pouring himself a glass of water.

"And I thought the Company sent you out in pairs," she replies, scanning the room in lieu of dealing with the absurdity of the situation.

Sylar's lips curl. "I was told I could handle this one on my own."

Claire squints. "My dad tried to kill you again?"

"A little."

She doesn't smile, digging in her pockets for a crumpled sheet of paper. "This is _my_ target, Sylar."

"I was here first," he argues.

She glowers. "Some of us had to take public transportation."

Promptly, he ignores her in favor of picking up the nearest newspaper. "The target should be home soon. Stockbroker, single." He skims the paper, adding, "Doing surprisingly well."

Claire brushes her fingers across a lamp, a shelf, the table. "Guess it helps to have powers that affect electronic transfers."

Sylar glances at her over the newspaper. "I thought Noah confiscated your files."

"I made copies."

He smiles as though he approves.

"Yeah, this isn't weird at all," she mutters under her breath, tinkering with an ashtray, a book, the tablecloth.

Calmly, he folds the newspaper and places it back on the kitchen counter. "Come now, Claire," he turns, "it's not so bad."

"It could be worse. I guess," she shrugs, moving past him. "The last guy who saved my life turned out to be my uncle. So, in comparison..."

He pauses, right eyebrow rising. "Oh. Probably not the best time to tell you, then."

She stops, narrows her eyes, and tilts her head to the side, snorting, "What, are you my uncle, too?"

"Yeah."

"...well, of course you are," she mumbles, collapsing onto the couch with a resigned frown, and rubs her face. "Was Angela born before they invented prophylactics?"

He straddles a kitchen chair, observing her with dark eyes. "Don't talk about her like that." His smile turns soft, almost grateful. "She's the reason we're both here, Claire. Have some respect."

"Clearly," she sighs, "you don't understand the situation."

"I understand," is all he says.

The clock chimes twelve times.

The room darkens as the sun passes through an onslaught of clouds.

So she shifts between the cushions, trying to exhale properly. "Why did you save me, Sylar?"

He's watching her as though he's been expecting the question. "Why does anyone do anything?"

Claire rolls her eyes. "Alright, Yoda, we'll just sit here in silence until the guy shows up, okay?"

"You're my niece, Claire," he drawls. "I don't have a habit of killing family members," he smirks, leaning back. "Not on purpose, at least."

"No," she argues, drawing her knees up. "That's not what I asked."

He cocks his head.

"I asked why you saved me, not why you didn't kill me." She drags her teeth across her bottom lip and adds, "Not that I can die, but you know. That vortex looked pretty deadly."

His breathing is even and his posture is relaxed, but he's watching her with this curious little frown. "I don't know."

There is honesty in that answer, so she drops the subject.

"Maybe I saw something familiar in you," he says, long after her throat has gone dry.

"When you tried to eat my brain."

He looks vaguely disgusted, but agrees. "Maybe I thought I didn't want to be alone. Like you."

Her shoulders stiffen. "I'm not alone, Sylar. I have a family that loves me. I have friends. I have a dog and neighbors and homework. I'm nothing like you."

His smile widens. "Your family will die, Claire. As will your friends. And Mr. Muggles. You know this. It's why you're here."

She can't argue convincingly, so she wraps her arms around her knees and rests her cheek against them. "How'd you do it?"

"You'll have to be more specific."

"How did you make it stop?" she exhales. "I can't feel anything. I can't believe I'm asking this, but did you break something when you were putting my... scalp back on?"

He's staring at her with an almost condescending look. "I fixed you."

"I wasn't broken!" she snaps.

"You're welcome," he says, mouth twisting most inappropriately.

She calms down. "You're a monster."

"Then why are you here?"

"Coincidence."

He looks intrigued. "You _can_ leave."

She doesn't.

So he lifts two fingers, and slowly spreads them apart. Her knees follow.

"Wait, what are you—" she gasps, attempting to scramble off the couch.

"Testing a hypothesis."

She grits her teeth, fingers tangling in the crease of her jeans, trying to close her legs. "Stop."

He lowers his hand with an imperceptible shrug. "So, you felt that."

It's not a question, but she answers anyway, curling in on herself. "I felt _disgusted_, yes."

His lips stretch. "You're putting the emphasis on the wrong word."

She looks up to glare at him. "Okay. I _felt_ disgu—"

His palm is outstretched toward her before she can finish the sentence. "What else can you feel?" he wonders aloud, pinning her to the cushions. Two of her buttons come undone. "Fear?" A bra strap slips off her shoulder. "Anticipation?"

Her breath hitches for a moment, and then she's staring at him with a hesitant scowl. "Stop it."

He concedes.

She remains quiet for a while, testing her invisible restraints, then wrinkles her nose in defiance. "You don't know everything, Sylar."

"No, not yet."

She pauses, relaxing. "And what will you do then? When you have all the power you want?"

He considers the question briefly. "Will there be such a day?"

Frustrated, she scoffs. "Yeah, and it will probably be the day after you stop answering my questions with questions. I think they call that the End Times?"

His smile is surprisingly genuine. "What would Mother have named you, I wonder."

She turns her head, murmuring, "What's 'dirty little secret' in Latin?"

Sylar's features soften. "You're right. You were abandoned. So was I."

She scowls at him. "Don't try to draw parallels between us. It's creepy. We're nothing alike."

"Oh, I don't know, Claire," he muses. "A little hair dye, some dark clothes... I could see a certain family resemblance."

She looks vaguely nauseous. "Gross." Clearing her throat, she stands up, peeking through the window, fingers brushing against the curtains. "...what do you think they would have named me?"

Sylar rises, observing her from a distance. "Mother seems to have an... affinity for the Good Book."

The curtains are billowing around Claire as she asks, "Harry Potter?"

Sylar looks equal parts offended and entertained, sidling up to her. "Bible, Claire."

She groans. "Great. I guess I probably have seven more uncles out there or something. Are we Irish?"

He follows her line of vision, observing the empty street. "Nathan the Prophet, Peter the Apostle," he begins softly. "Gabriel—"

"The angel of death," she finishes, irritated. "Look, I don't care about—"

"If you'd been born a boy, they probably would have named you Michael."

She looks at him over her shoulder. "After the singer?"

"Yes, Claire, after the singer," he sighs.

She relents. "The archangel."

"Mm," he nods. "Michael, the protector, who comes to Gabriel's aid."

Claire steps away from the window, flustered. "Well, okay. This is definitely weirder than being scalped alive."

Sylar leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, and raises an eyebrow. "You've been looking for a purpose, Claire."

Her fists clench. "Helping a serial killer? That's my purpose? Really?" Her lips thin. "I'd rather..." she trails off, glancing at her wrists. "Wait... what are you saying, Sylar?"

He glances away, hiding a smile. "I have a feeling my rehabilitation will take a while."

She shudders at the thought. "And?"

"You could help," he amends. "You know what your blood can do, Claire."

Her eyes widen suddenly. She's crossing the room before he can inhale, coming to stare up at him, fingers clutching his sleeves. "If you kill them, I could revive them? Would that work? I don't..." she shakes her head. "Can I do that?"

He says nothing.

"This is crazy." She lets go slowly, lost in thought. "I should go home."

"Yes, Claire," he tells her. "Spanish homework, right?"

Her eyes level with his.

"...and in exchange?" she asks warily.

He tilts his head inquisitively. "What?"

"What do you want in exchange?"

Surprised, he brushes past her, knuckles grazing her sweater. "Nothing."

He sounds as amazed by that answer as she is, so Claire runs a shaky hand through her hair. "I can't team up with you," she says, more to herself. "I kind of want to kill you."

"I can't die," he deadpans.

"Yeah," she nods absentmindedly. "I guess I should find more productive means of destroying you."

He seems to hear the challenge in her voice, and smiles. "You've got time."

She looks revolted, but the knob is turning.

The door opens with a creak.

"Target's home," he whispers to her.

She looks ready to bolt, so he catches her wrist and trains her attention to the doorway. "Partner."

Claire's made mistakes.

This, oddly enough, doesn't feel like one.


End file.
